


Our Souls are All We Own

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: based on how clean and injury-free they looked in the s4 trailer





	

**Author's Note:**

> [apanoplyofsong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong) already wrote an [awesome fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8852809) with this premise but LET'S BE REAL it's a great premise. i'm very excited to be able to see their beautiful faces. title from turn to stone by ingrid michaelson

As soon as she gets the prickling awareness that someone’s eyes are on her, Clarke’s shoulders tense. She hates that it’s a reflex now, especially when she realizes whose eyes they are.

“What’s up?” She asks without looking up from the map in front of her. Not that it’s doing her much good. At this point, the shapes and lines blur together, meaningless figures that spell nothing but death.

She hears the shuffle of boots behind her, a familiar tread, followed by a familiar sigh. She turns in her chair, hating how easily someone who knows her so well can tip her over the edge of her patience.

“Spit it out, Mom.”

“You’re not gonna like it,” Abby says. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, but hints of a smile play at the corners of her mouth. Something about it reminds Clarke of the time Abby caught Clarke drawing on a sleeping patient’s cast. Like Clarke is about to get a talking-to, but one without much heat behind it.

“I’m wracking my brain for what I could have done,” Clarke admits, nostalgia tugging at her heartstrings. “But I’ve been locked up with this map all week, trying to find a solution.”

“This isn’t a leader-to-leader talk, it’s a mother-to-daughter talk. And one I haven’t had to give you since you were young.” She steps closer and rests one hand on her daughter’s shoulder, tucking a stray blonde wisp behind Clarke’s ear. “You need a bath.”

“A bath," she repeats.

Abby nods. “Or a shower. I taught you about hygiene and I _know_ I taught you about scrubbing in before treating patients, so I don’t understand what all of--” she swipes her thumb across Clarke’s neck, and to her mortification it comes away grimy. “-- _this_ is about.”

“Message received,” Clarke tells her, equal parts annoyed and embarrassed. The way only her mother makes her feel. “I’ll wash up tonight.”

“Do it now,” Abby says. It’s not a suggestion. “You’ll think better if you give yourself a break from all of this. A weary mind isn’t going to come up with any solutions. In fact, it’s a sure way you’ll make more mistakes, so you’re going to go home, clean up, and get a full night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“What?” Clarke’s jaw drops. “Mom, you can’t just order--”

“I’m posting a guard outside your room. They’ve been instructed not to let you out until I say so.”

“So much for you not being here as a councilwoman,” Clarke grumbles, feeling childish and petulant the moment she speaks. Abby shrugs, annoyingly serene.

“I’d say it’s for your own good, sweetie, but we’re all going to appreciate it. If you show up to your shift at medical tomorrow morning and I see you haven’t showered or slept, I’m going to sedate you and wipe you down myself.”

“I’m eighteen years old.”

“So that would be pretty embarrassing, huh?” One of her hands cups Clarke’s chin as she leans in to give her a peck on the forehead. “We need you at your best. Take care of yourself, and let us take care of everyone else for a few hours.”

“Five more minutes,” Clarke insists, turning back to the maps. She needs to cool down before she lets anyone see her being handled by her mother.

“Okay,” Abby grants. She’s not exactly smug, but she’s got this air of satisfaction that is driving Clarke crazy. Mostly because it’s coming at Clarke’s expense. “Your guard is waiting just outside the door. If you don’t come out in that time, I’m giving him the authority to come collect you.”

“Fine.”

She fumes for a little while, breathing heavily and shaking her limbs out until she knows her time is almost up. It would ultimately be more mortifying for a guard to physically remove her to her quarters than for her to go of her own volition, so she heads for the door with seconds to spare.

It’s almost unsurprising to find Bellamy leaning up against the wall, munching on a pear and tracing the barrel of his gun like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Clarke knows better. He has far too many cares in this world.

“Ready?” He asks, straightening when he sees her. His expression is _pure_ smugness, and she flashes back to the dropship. She wants to wipe the smirk from his face, and part of her wants to do it with her lips.

She blinks a few times, trying to clear her mind.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

Nobody bats an eyelash, seeing them head toward Clarke’s room together. It’s not like he’s never been there before, not like he’s ever very far from her side.

She always knows where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing. It cools the itch under her skin whenever they’re apart. She’d known he had guard duty tonight but she hadn’t known he’d be guarding _her_.

“Traitor,” she mutters when he ushers her into her own room. His smirk morphs into a grin and he follows her in.

“Your Highness.”

“My mother said the guard would be posted _outside_ my door.”

“She also told me to do whatever I needed to do to make sure you followed her directions,” he says, kicking off his boots and getting comfortable on her bed. He even pulls a paperback book from inside his jacket. “Don’t worry. I’ll make myself at home. You do your thing, unless you need help? I don’t know how long it’s been since you last showered, but if you need a refresher course--”

“Yeah, yeah.” She snags her towel and heads to the sectioned-off restroom. “Very funny.”

The water-- however tepid-- beating down against her tight muscles should be soothing, but as soon as the spray hits her she remembers why she doesn’t do this often.

Too much time to remember the things she’s done, to think about all the things she ought to be doing instead. To feel guilty that she’s taking personal moments for herself. To feel selfish, like she can and should be giving more for her people. As if sacrificing herself in this small way is her personal form of atonement.

She shudders and gasps, trying to reel herself back in, but it’s too late. Her mind is a runaway train, dragging Clarke along for the ride.

But then something stops it. A sound. She can hear it above the boiling of her blood, above the pattering of the water.

She wipes drops from her face, stepping closer to the dividing wall so she can-- there it is again. A note, and then another, rising and falling.

Bellamy is-- _humming_.

It’s both endearing and unexpected, and makes something twist in the pit of her stomach. She can’t place the tune, or even follow it very well. She strains to make it out, the chaos in her mind quieting as she listens to the soft melody he weaves through all the noise.

She finds herself swaying to it, a gentle rock back and forth on the balls of her feet. When she looks down at them in surprise, she’s disgusted to see evidence of her filth coloring the water as it flows down the drain.

 _Soap,_ she thinks, lathering the eroded bar in her hands. She follows the song across her skin-- sweeping, arcing crescendos; quick, staccato loops; lingering notes that have her fingers pressing deep and long into her tired muscles.

When all the bubbles have followed the dirt and dried blood down the drain, every piece of her feels raw. Not in the way that she normally feels raw, not exposed, not stinging as her vulnerability chafes against a world made of sandpaper, but in a way that makes her feel new. As if it were that simple to wipe her slate clean.

Her hair is next. It’s easy to be gentle with herself when she’s this distracted. When she’s got one ear tuned to the room outside, her mind lulled into a dreamlike state, her fingers working through the knots and the tangles until the golden strands feel smooth under her touch.

She’s not surprised to find that he quiets as soon as she starts to shut the water off, but her mind has sunk enough into the quicksand of sleepiness that it doesn’t immediately start racing again. Instead, she’s able to appreciate the softness of her sleep shirt against her skin, the smell of it fresh enough she’s certain her mother had it washed.

He looks up when she emerges, still toweling her hair.

The whole world is glowing a little more around the edges after her shower. He’s no exception. His eyes flit over her features, down to her bare legs and then back up as if looking away from a light that’s too bright. It doesn’t feel like he’s leering at her, but like he’s checking to make sure she’s okay.

Her heart glows a little too.

“Feel better?”

“If I do, I’m not admitting it to you,” she sniffs, but she’s too content to pull off the affected tone she’d worn before. He can read her too well for it to matter much whether she says it or not. “How did my mother get you involved in this anyway?” She asks, draping the towel over a hook.

“She told me that if I didn’t accept the job, she’d offer it to someone else.”

Clarke snorts and nudges him to the side so she can pull her covers up enough to slide under them. He seems startled by the movement. What did he think her bed was for?

“And, what?” She asks, turning to face him and tucking her hands beneath her chin. “You said, no, I’m the only one who gets a front row seat to the let’s humiliate Clarke show?”

“Not at all. I thought, hey, maybe this is my chance to be within a three foot radius of you and not have to breathe through my mouth.”

She smiles and nestles down further beneath the covers, taking stock of him as she goes. His hands cradle the book like it’s precious, which she guesses it is. His hair is long, almost too long, every inch of it the reckless rebel he can be. His shoulders, so often drawn back and ready for a fight, so often steeled beneath the weight of the world, slump without a trace of defeat.

It’s relaxation, she realizes. She’s never seen him relaxed. She’s never had the chance.

And they don’t really _have_ the chance now, do they? They’re stealing the chance, surely adding to the worries of tomorrow by resting tonight. But in this moment, watching him be as at peace as she’s ever known him to be, she can’t bring herself to mind.

She scoffs and he glances down at her with a raised eyebrow.

“She really knows how to play us,” Clarke says, her words coming out slow and soft. “You might not need the shower as much as I did, but you could definitely use the rest. And if this is the way you get it, then--” She yawns and her eyelids flutter closed. “Then there’s no way I’m fighting her on it.”

“She’s good,” he agrees, his voice a low rumble that she could listen to forever.

That, and sleep deprivation, are maybe what lead her to ask, “What were you humming?”

“You could hear that, huh?”

She nods, wrinkling her nose when a wet strand slides across her nose. Before she can swat it away, his hands are there, combing her hair away from her face. It’s oddly soothing. She can feel the anxiety seeping from her very bones as he doesn’t take his hand away.

“It was Beethoven. Something my mother used to play to get O to sleep.” He pauses. “And probably me too, when I was a baby, but I don’t remember that as well.”

The pads of his fingers skim across her temple as they would a pool of water, trailing ripples of calm in their wake.

“Did it work?” She asks, trying to keep track of the conversation. Even as much as she gets to see Bellamy these days, it’s mostly work and doom and gloom. She doesn’t get him like _this_ , ever. She wants him like this. Wants to stay awake to enjoy him like this.

“You mean, did it lull her to sleep? As far as I know, it worked like a charm.”

His fingers bury themselves in her hair, massaging her scalp in a way that feels absolutely heavenly. She’s distantly aware that she has pressed up close to him, her forehead resting against the side of his thigh, her knees brushing his ankles.

“Do you think it would work on me?” She doesn’t mean to whisper it, but she’s having trouble finding her voice.

“You want me to sing you to sleep?” He sounds both amused and vaguely disbelieving. She stretches her fingers out to graze against his leg, trying to touch him as reassuringly as he’s petting her.

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause long enough she thinks he’s not going to, but then-- “I don’t mind. I’m not great at carrying a tune, though.”

“It’s not really Beethoven I want,” she admits. “Just you.”

“You’ve got me,” he promises. The humming starts again, no real pattern that Clarke can discern but sweet and soothing nonetheless.

It floats around her and she in it, letting it carry her out like a tide to the sea of sleep. It’s not the music that nudges her to drift off, but how safe it makes her feel. The world will continue to spin, if only for a while. They can attack their problems anew when morning comes. For now, with Bellamy by her side, they can be soft and rest.

And Clarke wouldn’t trade that for the world.


End file.
